Orange Collision

[macca44552]

Title: Orange Collision

Pairings: J/P, G/R   Equal time for both pairings
Rating: NC-17

Warnings: sexual situations, drug and alcohol use, language, distressing situations

Summary: En route to Los Angeles, a storm diverts the Beatles to an uncharted island in the middle of the Pacific.  Finding themselves among the few survivors, romantic tension flares up as they try desperately to find a way home.  Meanwhile, some peculiar events occur that lead them all to fear for their sanity...

A/N: Anyway, I know that there are a lot of AUs in the community as of late, but I really wanted some practice writing situation-based conflict as opposed to character-based conflict (even though the main theme in this story is still going to involve character-based conflict). It’s a way of branching out, you see. =) Also, this story is very Lost-esque, but obviously it has a different plot. There are just some similar themes.

A/N 2: Guess whose point of view is up next… :P

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Beatles, nor do I claim to. This is a fictional story and is not written to be libelous.

Chapters 1-6


Chapter 7

“We had a plan you know.”

“Oh? And what plan was that?”

“Well, we figured that if you didn’t come back by tomorrow morning then we were gonna pack up and kip it with you in the forest.”

“That sounds like a mental plan. I would have kicked your arses,” John smiled.

“We figured you’d be too weak at that point,” Ringo said, grinning broadly as a very dirty and bloody John Lennon beamed back at him. Before his feet was an empty tray of fruit and nuts that Frisby had given him that morning. To no one’s surprise, John had wolfed it down with an animalistic ferocity, barely remembering to breathe between mouthfuls.

“I even snuck some food from the others,” George said, obviously pleased with his mischief. When John looked at George with an immense amount of pride, however, Paul couldn’t help but set the record straight.

“Actually, you know. If I hadn’t of distracted Jessica and Frisby, you wouldn’t have nicked anything,” Paul supplied in a hasty, detached manner.  As expected, George gave him an indignant look. Not as expected, John did the same thing.

“Hey, Paul. If you wanna get your ego stroked, get to the back of the line. Until then, just do what you’re good at-sitting around and looking pretty,” John bit and Paul felt anger spread through his chest. Rising to John’s bait would accomplish nothing, he realized, so he summoned up all of his willpower and turned away from his infuriating mate.

Everything was so fucking wrong between them.  These days, Paul couldn’t even talk to John without the arsehole spewing out an attack in his direction.  At first, he had just assumed that John was in another one of his ‘moods’ and his irrational anger was nothing that could be helped, but as the days wore on and eventually molted into weeks, Paul knew that something else was happening.

“I’ll be back. Don’t fall apart without me,” John announced as he strode away from their ‘camp’ and headed into the ocean water. With advent attention, Paul watched as he submerged himself completely under the blue waves before rising to the surface, his hair clinging to his forehead. John’s shirt was abandoned soon after, and Paul didn’t even think about blinking as he watched John clean himself under the water. A blast of arousal travelled through his system when he saw John’s pants floating in the ocean, orphaned just like his shirt. Fuck, John Lennon was naked under there. Paul licked his lips.

As he continued to stare, a small voice in his head was telling him to stop, telling him that this was wrong, queer. But another part of him, presenting itself with a stronger, almost African accent, didn’t really give a fuck. And maybe that was why John was pissed at him. Maybe John was pissed because Paul didn’t fucking care about the consequences, he just knew what he wanted and he was going to go after it. Unfortunately, what Paul wanted came in the form of his best male friend. But he had been dealing with this revelation for a very long time, and after stifling his needs for the better part of their friendship, he had just decided to not fucking give a shite.

John was different though. He did care. But Paul didn’t know what he cared about. What was made readily apparent, though, was that something was holding John back.

To be fair, Paul hadn’t woken up one day and decided that he wanted to bend John Lennon over the table and fuck him until they both blacked out. No, his enlightening (if one could call it that) had happened when a very peculiar sequence of events had decided to sneak up on him and molest his head with a hammer…

They’d just finished filming a scene in which Ringo, jovial as ever, had been drumming along to the sounds of ‘You’re Going To Lose That Girl’, ignorantly unaware of the fact that the floor area around his drum kit was being sawed by a ring-obsessed loon. Before the shooting, Paul had had to listen to John’s mouth spouting off things like, “Yeah, like Ringo would be fucking stupid enough not to notice a saw cutting around his ankles. I know he’s stupid, but give him some fucking credit”, and at the end of the scene Paul had had to listen to John spouting off about how, “Ringo’s not fucking mental. He would have seen that. If they were smart, they would have had him notice at the last minute and fling himself off the kit, y’know? But instead they’re going with the ‘dumb Ringo’ angle like on that fucking cartoon. Not like it doesn’t suit ya, Ritchie, but I’m just tryin’ to point out some shoddy writing.” Paul was inclined to agree with some of John’s statements, but, honestly, he had viewed the scene as harmless fun (not to mention the fact that the other Beatles had also been unaware of the chaos around Ringo’s drum kit). Besides, he had had a good time filming it, which was saying something since it was probably the only scene that they’d filmed without some influence of weed.

“You gonna stay in the cinema and watch this when it comes out? I can tell you right now-after what I went through with ‘A Hard Day’s Night’, there’s no fucking way that I’m going to stay and watch this shite.”

John was talking and Paul was looking around the small club, trying to fish out a lovely bird. John was leaning on him, speaking into his ear, and it made Paul’s stomach flip uncomfortably. Just another adverse side-effect to having a frustratingly attractive best mate. Now he was going to either have to sit alone in his hotel room and wank off, or he was going to have to find a bird to have a good time with. Fuck.

“Did you just shudder?” John asked as he gave him a piercing gaze. Paul gulped inaudibly and found himself temporarily unable to make eye contact. ‘Yeah, John. With you breathing down my neck and giving me a fucking stiffy, how couldn’t I shudder?’

Instead, Paul quickly answered, “No. Just a chill,” before he turned back towards the dance floor and gazed at the women. Ringo was there, dancing like a freak, and Paul had the urge to get up and join him, if only to get away from the insufferable presence of John Lennon who, tonight, seemed to be having trouble defining the term ‘personal space’.

Fuck it. Like personal space had ever existed between them. Still, he had been aroused since filming started and if he didn’t get a John-free moment soon, he was likely going to come in his pants.

“What’s the matter with you!?” John barked and Paul was pleased to find that John was no longer leaning over him.

“Nothing,” he answered, breathing out a sigh, “I’m just…tired. Think I might go up to me room.”

“That’s fucking stupid. I thought George was the kid of the group,” John remarked as he took a sip of his lager. Speaking of George, the bloke was standing a ways off, chatting with some bird. It was strange watching him, sometimes he seemed interested in the girl, and other times he would glance over into the dance floor as if that was where he wanted to be. Paul snorted and shook his head at George’s poor social skills.

“I’m just tired,” he repeated when he realized that he hadn’t responded to John’s words. The latter crossed his arms and glared at him angrily.

“Fine. Leave. And throw your nappies away when you’re done.”

Paul knew that this was a game. He knew that John was testing him; he knew that John wanted him to stay, as if that would confirm the strength of their friendship. He’d been through this with John way too many times not to recognize the signs. And usually he would have relented and stayed or, at least, he would have stuck around for a few more minutes and tried to get him in a better mood before he left. Energy, though, was absent from Paul’s body and he didn’t even have the motivation to find a bird and woo her into his room. Plus, the longer he stayed around with John, the longer it would take for him to put his hand around his cock and pull it to release. And fuck did he need release.

“Night, then,” Paul said as he got up and walked away. He was aware that John was swearing at his back (calling him a ‘faggot’ and whatnot), but he didn’t care to turn around and address any of this. In record time he was in his room, his hand was around his cock, and he was stroking himself away, all while staring at John’s bed.

And then he was interrupted. A knock clambered through the room like a syncopated whine and he nearly growled when he shoved himself back into his pants, harder than ever, and zipped away his need. It was probably John, he assumed. Coming around to yell at him again. Great.

When he opened the door, though, he realized that it wasn’t John. Not exactly, anyway.

“Er…hello?” Paul greeted in a confused but welcoming tone.

“Sorry,” the girl started, “I was looking for my friend’s room and I knocked on yours by mistake.”

Paul could tell that she was lying. Her neckline was too low, her skirt was too short, her makeup was too perfect, and her eyes were scanning his body with too much determination. He knew exactly why she was knocking at his door.

For his own enjoyment, he played along, “Oh. Well it’s just me in here. Do you know what floor your friend’s room is on?” he asked, putting on an aloof disposition.

She tugged a lock of brownish-red hair behind her ear before she continued, “No. Actually I don’t remember.”

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” he said as he stepped closer to her.

“Yes. A shame,” was the last thing that she said before Paul’s lips were on hers and she was being pulled into his room.

The door slammed behind them but neither party was aware of that fact. Paul’s tongue was working against hers expertly and she was sighing and trembling in his arms. Before he eventually had to face the decision on whether to fuck her against the wall or drag her to his bedroom, Paul opened his eyes and stared at her.

She looked like him. It was nearly uncanny. Her nose held the same shape, her hair was the same color, and her eyes were the same shade of brown. Fuck! She even smirked like him-which was what she did when she noticed that he had been staring.

“Something you want?” she asked suggestively and Paul blinked before he went back to kissing her. Her voice was a little higher than John’s, he realized, but it was similar enough for him to look past it. He needed her now. Against the wall would do.

He pulled off her shirt in one easy swoop and was immensely pleased to discover that she had small breasts. He tended to those quickly, and was faintly aware of his own shirt being ripped off his body, before he undid the buckle on her skirt and pulled it down, panties included.

He froze. He completely and utterly froze. Disappointment swelled in his chest and Paul had trouble keeping his composure.

She had a vagina. Which should have been obvious, he realized, since she was a fucking female, but, deep in the recesses of his mind, Paul had been hoping beyond all hope that maybe, just maybe, John had been fucking with him. That maybe John had been pissed enough at Paul’s departure that he had decided to dress up as a girl and snog him as a sick, cruel joke to make him pay for leaving him alone at that club.

But this wasn’t John. This was Johnrietta-or something-and she was a completely different person. Even looking at her now Paul realized that the features that he had previously thought looked uncannily like John’s were just poor misrepresentations. Her hair was actually a little darker than John’s, her nose was pointer, and her eyes were lighter. Come to think of it, she barely looked anything like John.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice shrill and gravelly.

“Er…nothing,” Paul stuttered when he realized that he was turned off because she didn’t have a fucking penis. “I’m just…not really feeling up to it tonight. Sorry.”

Naturally, she was livid, “What!?! You seemed pretty into it before!!”

“I know. I’ve just got a lot of work to do tomorrow and I’ve already got a headache,” Paul lied as he held his forehead.

“Yeah, whatever,” she muttered angrily as she pulled up her skirt and shoved her shirt back on.

“Do you…do you want some tea or anything before you go?” Paul asked, feeling slightly guilty.

“No thanks,” she said as she picked up her purse and stormed out of his room. With a sigh, Paul collapsed onto his bed and ran his hands down his face. This…John thing was becoming a problem. He couldn’t even enjoy sex anymore because his head was so consumed with Lennon thoughts. And that bird had turned him on. A lot. But looking like John hadn’t been enough. Paul wanted the real thing. Anything else wouldn’t be able to compare. Everything else would be…disappointing. Everything else was disappointing.

So the way he saw it, he had two options. He could either have less than satisfying sex everyday (or twice a day), or he could say ‘fuck it’ and go after his male best friend.

Surprisingly enough, he hadn’t even chosen the second option. He had found himself with his tongue down John’s throat and a discarded bottle of shampoo at his feet purely due to environmental stimulus (and maybe an already throbbing member). But after that had happened, after he had pulled away, Paul was filled with the most amazing and gratifying feeling of liberation that he was quite certain that kissing John had been the smartest thing that he had ever done. Despite the awkward conversations that happened after the kiss, Paul wanted nothing more than to do it again.

And he told John exactly that-that he was going to kiss him no matter what and there wasn’t a fucking goddamn thing that he could do about it. Maybe he should have rephrased his words a little bit, because that phrase had permanently set John off on an anti-Paul mood.

Paul sighed and watched as John moved out of the water and up the beach, reaching their spot in a matter of seconds. He was wearing all of his soaking wet clothes and Paul had to wonder why John went through all the trouble of slipping back into his wet clothes when he could have just walked up to them in his briefs. But Paul didn’t have to wonder for long, though, because he already knew the illogical reason behind John’s actions.

“George can you hand me some clothes?” John ordered more than asked. Complying, George rifled through their suitcase for a second before he pulled out a clean outfit.

“This was all there was,” George said and John immediately turned his gaze to fix Paul with a dirty look.

“You went through all those clothes already?! Fuck, Paul! You don’t need to change your outfit everyday!! Unless there’s a magical clothes store on this island that I don’t know about,” John yelled before he headed into the forest to change, giving Eppy a dirty look as he walked past their manager.

“Fuck. He’s not really happy with you at the moment, is he?” Ringo said with a concerned look. Paul was about to answer him when he caught sight of George staring at the drummer with calculating, curious eyes. A smile fitted across his lips and Paul was just about to tell George to stop staring (after all, annoying George was one of his favorite pastimes), but something about his friend’s stare made him stop the tease that had rooted at the tip of his tongue. Something about the way that George’s eyes ran up and down Ringo’s arms (while the drummer was completely oblivious) told Paul that he shouldn’t say anything.

“It’ll pass,” Paul said dismissively. George shook his head the tiniest of fractions and he looked at Paul with a horrified expression, afraid that he had caught him staring. Paul pretended that he hadn’t noticed.

“Hope so. He always acts weird when he’s pissed at you,” Ringo said offhandedly and Paul tried his best not to smile happily at the remark.

“You know,” John said as he emerged from the forest, sporting a cleaner look, “I think I’ll go and kill a bird or something. The bloody look suits me.”

Paul was inclined to disagree, “You don’t need any more blood. You look mental enough as it is.”

While everyone else laughed, John gave Paul a look that clearly said ‘you are the fucking scum of the earth’ before he ignored him completely and turned to George.

“I’m gonna go talk to Tosser about something. You wanna come?”

“Yeah sure,” George nodded, stood up, and followed John.

Paul hated feeling jealous. He hated the fact that John didn’t want anything to do with him. No matter how hard he had tried to sort things out between them, John had done nothing but ignore his efforts and toss him aside. And all this was happening because he had stood up to John. All this was happening because Paul had asserted himself and told John what he wanted rather than continuing to fucking silently pine for him for a few more years. Apparently John just couldn’t handle what he wanted.

Fine.

He stood up and brushed some sand from his arse before he strode over to Nicole and sat down next to her.

“Hello,” he greeted pleasantly, not wanting her to catch on to the fact that something was wrong. She probably wouldn’t though-she was a bit slow.

“Oh hi!” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. She wasn’t doing it to be sexy, no; she was doing it out of complete shyness.

“So how’s your day been?”

She shrugged a couple of times, “It’s alright. I hate sleeping on the sand, though.”

Her hands were shaking slightly as she was talking to him and Paul was amazed at how nervous she was becoming in his presence.

“I do too. But at least the sand is a bit comfortable. Imagine if we were sleeping on stones,” Paul said, wagging his finger at her as she chuckled nervously.

Nicole was pretty. She had short, brown hair and her teeth were some of the whitest and straightest that he had ever seen. While Paul wasn’t exactly attracted to her, he liked the attention that she gave him, and he wouldn’t be opposed to having sex with her if she asked. After all, there were only two women on the island.

Jessica was pretty too. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and she had long, blonde hair. Even though her body wasn’t nearly as fit as Nicole’s, she had something about her that was much more attractive than the young, nervous brunette beside him. Despite the fact that Jessica probably wouldn’t have done much to take his thoughts off of John, Paul had tried to make a move on her anyway.

“Hi, Jessica,” Paul started as he caught her coming back from changing Ringo’s bandages, “You look beautiful in that shirt.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Paul,” she responded in a bored voice before she walked away.

Yeah, that hadn’t turned out so well.

“Why would we have to sleep on stones?” Nicole asked after awhile. Paul just sighed.

“I’m just saying that it could have been worse,” he explained before furious yells filled his ears. Entirely from John, of course.

Paul turned around and watched as John and Frisby got into a heated disagreement. John was yelling, ‘It’s been seven fucking days and no one has come!’ while Frisby was saying, ‘It’s too soon! Let’s wait at least three more days!’ And this back and forth continued for a few more rounds before John spun around furiously, whispered something to George, and walked away from both him and Frisby. Paul’s eyes followed John’s retreating figure until he had disappeared into the forest.

“Wonder what that was all about,” Nicole voiced.

“Yeah. Me too,” Paul replied as he continued to stare into the forest. It was taking him every bit of self control that he owned not to go storming into the wilderness to find out what the fuck John was doing. Whatever had happened between him and Frisby certainly hadn’t sounded very good; was John going to starve himself by that tree again?

“Your friend seems nice. His name is John, right?”

“Er…yeah,” Paul answered distractedly as he mentally weighed the pros and cons of following John into the forest and talking to him.

“He seems like the most normal one here,” she said. Paul turned and stared at her. John…the most normal!? He had been nothing but moody since they’d gotten to the fucking island!! And with Nicole possessing courage equal to that of a fucking squirrel, Paul thought that she would have actually been afraid of him!

But Paul decided not to dwell on Nicole’s strange proclamation for too long. He was much more interested in what was going on with John. So, without excusing himself much more than just nodding in her direction, Paul left Nicole’s side and headed for the forest.

The leaves brushed past his face and tickled his skin uncomfortably as he made his way through the woods, scouring the grassy and tree-infested domain for any sign of John. It took awhile to find him (he wasn’t underneath his tree like Paul had assumed) but when he did, John had a stick in his hand and he was furiously digging into the earth with a sweaty brow.

Paul took note of how attractive he looked before he stepped forward and cleared his throat, “John?”

The addressed Beatle looked up from his digging and he gave Paul an irritated glare, “What do you want?”

“I…er…I just came to make sure-”

“Make sure that I’m not going to nail myself to that tree?” John interrupted.

“Well…yeah.”

“Hmm. Well I’m fine. You can go now,” John said as he refocused his attention on the hole in front of him. Paul swallowed and stepped forward.

“What are you doing?”

“Gee, you know, I thought I’d plant a tree,” John responded sardonically. Paul chuckled weakly.

“Seriously. I heard you fighting with Frisby.”

“That old cunt? Did he tell you anything?”

“No, I didn’t speak to him,” Paul responded.

“Oh. Well I told him that we should bury that pile of bodies that’s been sitting on the beach for seven fucking days. He disagreed and started saying some shite about waiting three more days until rescue shows up. But rescue isn’t going to show up, so I’m building this grave for all the bodies so it’ll be here for when I prove him wrong,” John explained, barely glancing up at Paul as he continued to shovel deeper and deeper into the earth. Paul blinked and shook his head.

“You really believe that rescue isn’t going to come?”

John stopped shoveling, “Paul, wake the fuck up. It’s been seven days. Rescue hasn’t come and it’s not going to come. They fucking forgot about us, okay? So we’ve got to start taking matters into our own hands. Those bodies have fucking maggots growing on them and pretty soon those people are going to become snacks for the local rodents. We have to bury them as soon as possible. We’ve waited long enough. No one’s coming.”

“Come on, John! You can’t just dismiss the thought of rescue! They could be waiting for a storm to stop! Or maybe they’re-”

“Or maybe they’ve forgotten about us!!” John shouted angrily.

“They haven’t forgotten!! They’ll come!” Paul retorted, his voice rising in volume.

“Paul, I’m not going to sit around and do nothing! I’m not going to put all of my hope into a bunch of men who couldn’t give a fuck about what happens to us!!”

“John!”

“No, Paul! Get your head out of the clouds, and while you’re at it, get your queer arse away from me! I’m actually going to make myself useful,” John barked as he returned to his work with a newfound vigor. Paul just stood there and stared at him. It was pointless; talking to John Lennon was pointless. He didn’t want anything to do with him and that fact alone filled Paul’s chest with an onslaught of conflicting emotions. And why didn’t John want to speak to him? Was it because Paul had stood up to him or was it because of the kiss? And did it matter? John obviously thought that he was disgusting (even though Paul was more than certain that John had enjoyed the kiss); John obviously hated him now…was this thing between them worth it? This thing that could ultimately end up destroying their friendship?

“Look, John,” Paul began in a voice that was stronger than he had initially intended, “I don’t know exactly why you’ve been off with me, but I can’t fucking take it anymore!! Just forget about it okay!? Just forget about everything that happened between us!! I want things to go back to normal!!”

Somewhere during Paul’s spiel, John had dropped his stick, “What the fuck are you talking about!?”

“Come on John, you know exactly what I’m talking about!! The fucking kiss, okay!! Can we just forget that it happened?!!” Paul yelled as he threw his hands up in the air.

John walked around the hole that he had dug and stood in front of Paul, “Why!?!”

“Because you obviously don’t want anything…like that to happen again and I don’t want to fuck up our friendship. So let’s just forget-”

“I don’t want to.”

Paul blinked, his face turning red, “What?”

“I don’t want to,” John was whispering, his eyes never breaking away from Paul’s.

Heat flooded Paul’s body as he tried to process John’s words, “But…but you said-”

“I don’t want to forget,” John whispered for a final time before he finally looked down from Paul’s eyes and walked away. Shaking, Paul fisted his hands in hair and practically ripped at the strands. He was so fucking confused. He was so fucking horny. And John was driving him mad.

Maybe he should be the one to nail himself to the tree.

To be continued…